


alleyway gods

by eighthchakra



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:49:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eighthchakra/pseuds/eighthchakra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arrows and apitoxin and children without names.</p>
            </blockquote>





	alleyway gods

1

“We don’t need names here,” he told her the afternoon she arrived at the Ba Sing Se Home for Orphan Children, “We’re not people here.” 

“If we’re not people, then what are we?”

“Statistics.”

He spoke no more that day, preferring to pore over bows and arrows, then eventually bleeding into the throng of children like her. Children like them. He seemed to be used to anonymity, perhaps even embracing it, but she wondered how long it would take before the facelessness consumed them all. Until she ceased to become (not a person, she never had been) bones and flesh and blood, and died into the witching hours. A street, maybe, or canal water. 

That night, he knocked on her door (but there was no use, because it gave way with any slight nudge) and gave her a small blade, spotted with rust and age. It’s not much, his eyes said, but maybe it will help you. 

“I don’t need it,” she replied. 

He shook his head and placed the dagger in her hands.

You do. 

She traced the lines where other blades nicked the dagger, and wondered how many scars he received before turning to the bow and arrow. 

She promised, silently, to avenge him. 

2

“Three more years until they spit me out on the streets,” she sighed, pulling the cracked wallpaper on the common room wall. 

“The streets are probably kinder,” Longshot replied, examining another arrowhead. He never seemed to look at her directly when he spoke, if he spoke (but, in truth, he did look at her, he just made sure she missed it). 

“Five words,” she laughed, “That’s a milestone for us, Longshot.” 

“Us?” he quirked a brow.

“I don’t see you talking to anyone else.” 

He nodded and threw the arrowhead into the trash bin. 

“I don’t know where I’ll go when I turn eighteen,” she said, “I’ve never really thought about it.” 

“I’ll be gone next year,” Longshot murmured.

“You’ll have to wait for me first.” 

3

“Leftists. Socialists. Filibusters. Revolutionaries,” Jet declared, his voice filling the entire expanse of the Jasmine Dragon, “We are none of those. We are all of those.” 

A young girl in ribbons raised her hand, “Won’t Mr. Iroh and his nephew know what we’re up to?” 

“Thank you,” Jet leaped atop a table, “That is the point.”

“Orphans of the Fire Nation,” Jet said, “we need to be liberated from everything that ties us to the world. Only then can we be free.” 

“We have no names,” they chanted, “we have no faces. We have no voices. But we will have freedom!” 

“Welcome,” Jet told them, “It starts now.” 

One by one, they shed their names, pledging loyalty in the storage chamber of the Jasmine Dragon. Two hours, the tea shop would open and they would all be gone. They would return to their first lives until night falls and identity disappears. 

“Mi Feng is no more,” she joined in, “I am Smellerbee.” 

Longshot nodded beside her, raising an arrow in agreement. 

Even she didn’t know his real name. Perhaps she didn’t want to. 

4

“Ms. Feng,” Professor Piandao dropped her student file on his desk, “What happened?” 

“Sir?” she placed her right hand in her pocket, searching for her knife. It wasn’t there. I must have left it at the orphanage. 

“You were one of my best students,” he continued, “You were so interested about history and politics, always contributing to discussions. You even interviewed General Iroh for the first term project!”

“But now…you’re barely scraping by,” he began leafing through the manila envelope, “Is there something wrong at your group home?” 

“No.”

“Are you looking for your blade?” he placed her dagger beside her file, and she realized how easily it would be to just grab it and scamper away. 

“I don’t have a blade, sir.”

“You’re very intelligent, Ms. Feng,” the professor said, “Very intuitive.” 

He paused, and smiled at her, “But I am, too.”

She shifted in her seat. 

“I have heard stirrings of, I don’t know, a revolutionary group rooted in the school,” he said, “Professor Long Feng has fished out its leader. Jet. You know him, perhaps?” 

“I do.”

“And would it be possible if you know a certain Gong Jian Shou, as well?” 

“No.” 

“That’s a pity,” Professor Piandao motioned for her to stand up, “Because Shou told me he knew you very well.”


End file.
